


The Door To Dreams Is Closed

by roxymissrose



Category: Smallville
Genre: Murder, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-25
Updated: 2011-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:41:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>omg, they killed Ollie!</p><p>originally posted 11-24-2008</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Door To Dreams Is Closed

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks a bazillion to the unbelievably patient [](http://jakrar.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://jakrar.livejournal.com/)**jakrar** who made this bright and shiny! I really appreciated your help.
> 
> for [](http://sv-char-death.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://sv-char-death.livejournal.com/)**sv_char_death** **Oliver Queen Must Die!** challenge

  
In the end, it was ridiculously easy. Stun grenades—based on Oliver's own arrowheads--made it seem like…kismet.

  
Green Arrow…Oliver Queen, school yard bully grown into bully masquerading as hero--bastard. They dragged his unconscious body into the room I'd prepared for him—stainless steel walls, floors, ceiling, a thin layer of kryptonite sandwiched between brick and lead. I didn't want unwelcome guests. There was a bed easily converted to a restraint table, a single light fixture, flush against the ceiling, and a window high in the wall, with a metal blind that I control. High enough to be inaccessible but wide enough to let a little sun into the room when I decide; I'm not entirely heartless.

Day 2  
'Oliver…wake up now. Wake up.'

His eyes blink slowly, and there's a little smile on his lips, like he's waking up at home in his bigger-than-a-king, custom designed and hand built bed. The bed Clark lost his virginity on, actually, but that's neither here nor there and has nothing to do with this. Nothing at all. I'm going to make Oliver scream…but not yet.

Blue eyes come into focus; he's beginning to understand things aren't quite as they should be. There it goes, the moment of recognition; he knows now that it's…ah. He sees me.

God, this is almost as good as sex.

"Luthor, you fucking bastard—let me go!"

Better.

Sleeping Beauty. I walk past the bed, lifted and stripped of bedspread and pillow, his arms and ankles strapped to the sides, and I have to laugh a little; it reminds me of my youth…before I landed in Smallville….

I run my fingers between his legs and stop just short of his sac because…wait for it….

  
"You sick fuck—get your hands off me!"

…and there we have it, predictable as always. "You really should be more polite. I do have your life in my hands, you know." I give his 'life' a little squeeze so he knows who's in charge. He comes off the table with a groan, then eyes me like a grizzly. Aw, Ollie, did I break your cool? Tough.

"What do you want, you bastard, you sick kidnapping *fuck*, you—"

  
I signal Davis, and he sweeps in and jabs Oliver in the neck with a lovely little concoction designed to relax and more importantly make the man shut the fuck up. Oliver yells in shock, and I hope it hurts, too. He shudders all over, and I'm guessing by the way he's gnawing on his lip and sweating, it does. "Burns?"

"Fuck you." Ollie always was remarkably articulate. I smile at him, watch his eyes glaze over and his muscles go lax…I lean into his ear and say, "Oh, I'm going to fuck you all right…just not yet." Let the son-of-a-bitch take that into dreamland with him….

Day 7  
We've been waking him up and putting him back to sleep on and off for a few days, and I'm sure now that he's lost any concept of what day it is, what time….

He's pretty groggy when I tap his shoulder. "Wake up, lover, rise and shine."

"Clark?"

I swear to God, I want to punch him right in his big bland blonde face. Right between his fucking eyes. Right in his lizard-lipped mouth. That he had the nerve to put—

"Tell me what you want, you bastard. Tell me—"

"I want the names of the Justice League. Every secret identity, every alter-ego."

"What? I—I don’t know what you're talking about. Let me go, my company will pay what you want--"

"As amusing as this is, you have to know that we stripped you out of your unbelievably gauche uniform—I mean, honestly—*green* leather? At this moment I'm having your clever little arrows examined and, by the way, lifts in your boots, really?"

"Lifts—fuck you, my boots are—" he stops and looks like I'd just punched him in the gut. "You go to hell."

"That's right, Oliver. No more secret identity. It's all gone…pfft." God, this is better than I ever imagined it would be. To tell you the truth, I'm a little hard…"Gee, aren't you the brave little soldier." I pretend to shiver. "It's so hot."

I laugh. Seriously, I can't help it--Oliver looks so completely furious that, if he were Clark, he'd be boring twin little flaming holes into my forehead. I wonder if he misses fucking Clark….

"Hey." He looks up at me and I smile. "Nap time."

"No, don’t, don't, you bastard; don't put me back—no!"

  
Davis drives the needle into his neck and I put my hand on Oliver's arm. "Sorry. No, really, I am…." He's vibrating all over from the effort of controlling the pain, eyes darting back and forth….

After a bit, his eyelids flutter; he can't hold off sleep anymore. I whisper, "Soon, this will end, promise, just give me the names and I promise…."

I kiss his cheek and he kind of swallows a sob. I think…I think he's starting to get it.

Day 12  
I allow the restraints to be removed; I allow solid food. He's awake when I come in the room.

"Luthor, you know they're looking for me. He'll find you, you can't hide from him."

"First of all, Oliver, aren't you and I are on a first name basis, hmm? Old school chums, blah blah? Come on, Oliver, have you thought about my offer? Ready to name names yet?"

"Thought about it! How can I? You keep knocking me out, you fucking creep!"

Complain, complain. "Let's talk about why you're here…again."

"I'm here because you're a murdering, sociopathic criminal. Because you're a sick piece of shit, just like we knew at school. That's why the shit that happened to you happened—because you liked it." He sneers. "That's why your ass was on the line…freak."

I take a deep breath to center myself, push down a roaring wall of flame that rushes up from my gut into my throat and tries to choke me. I smile, wide as I can. "Ah-ah-ah. Sticks and stones…." I pull a little device from my pocket, admire its gunmetal-gray casing and, after a second or two, press a button. He yells—very loud, very pissed off. I wave the controller at him and say, "Now, there are levels—" I press the bottom button again. "From mildly annoying," and I zing him--so sue me, I think I'm allowed a moment. The way he flops around on the table makes me want to laugh but--out of kindness to Oliver--I restrain myself and just… smirk.

Sadly, watching him struggle quickly begins to remind me of my own 'fun' evenings at Excelsior, with Ollie and friends…and those thoughts are nowhere near amusing. Ah, well.

When I stop, I have his complete attention—better believe I do. I'm God as far as he's concerned. I give in to a little shiver…hell, I can't help smiling. I press the top button and wait, like it's God damn Christmas and I'm finally getting my pony.

Nothing happens and I'm beyond furious--for a few seconds, I'm thinking that I've been sold a bill of goods, and someone is going to pay. I don’t ask for much. I expect competency and decent fucking craftsmanship, at least--

And then I take a good look at Queen.

His eyes are thin slivers of white shining from under those thick eyelashes, and saliva's bubbling in the corners of his mouth. He's shit and pissed himself. Disgusting. The high level's…a _bit_ high. Not wanting to lose my project so quickly, I dial it back in increments and take note, watch the screen which displays his vital signs. Suddenly he's lunging at his restraints, screaming--a shattering rip of noise so loud that it makes me jump. Perfect.

I let him get his breath, regain some control over himself. "Don't worry, Oliver, I'll have someone to clean up here in a moment."

His face crumples like a used tissue. Brave soul, he's struggling manfully not to cry.

I won’t lie--it's a bit--oh *fuck*, it's completely, *completely,* better than sex. "Now, Ollie—I can call you Ollie, can't I? I mean, we're going to be closer than brothers soon, I feel it—this device, I don't want to use this, but I will if I have to."

"What…do…you…want…" he's panting, barely able to speak, and sweat rolls off him, so much that the gray sheets are turning black underneath him.

"I told you; names, identities. All you have to do is give them to me and you're free to go." He's turning his face from me, trying to hide....

He mumbles something, repeats it when I lean in to hear him. "Fuck you, you cock-sucking freak."

Kettle, pot....

Fine. I walk to the bed and his spine gets stiffer and stiffer as I come closer, but he's not saying a word. My, my. Brave little soldier….

I run a finger between his soaking shoulder blades, shove my hand up under his t-shirt, and he shivers. He's slick with sweat and cold, so it's a lot like touching a trout. I can hear him snarl, just barely.

"I bet you think this is it, hmm. You think I'm going to rape you. I'm not going to rape you." I rub a hot spot between his shoulders; rub the back of his neck. He's tense, strung tight as a bow by the time I stop touching him. "Think about what I asked, and your answer." I call for the room and its occupant to be cleaned, set the controller a few notches past annoying and leave.

Evenings, I watch him when he's released, watch him try to find the cameras—try to look unmoved. I watch Oliver, and think about wasted opportunities…and Clark fucking Kent.

It's not exactly a hardship to watch him; he's well built, always had a nice ass…still, I have no idea why *Clark* was attracted, but Ollie is…quite the whore. I'm sure that explains why Clark moved on so quickly. I must admit, that Clark slept with men came as a total surprise to me. I'd always assumed, sadly, that he was exclusively hetero with just the smallest dash of Lex-curious. If only I'd known that his tastes ran further than the enterprising and surprising Lana Lang, well…he would at least have been violated on sheets of a higher thread count and…maybe I might have saved myself some unpleasant times.

Ah, well. Oliver's taste has always been suspect…Lois Lane was proof of that. Clark was an aberration.

Day 18  
Every day, I ask him the usual question, yada-yadah, identities, freedom, and so on. I have him awakened at odd hours to ask him my question—personally, or via recording because I like to keep somewhat reasonable hours, but I don’t feel obligated to extend the same courtesy to our guest. He's starting to fray at the edges. It's endlessly fascinating, so many variations on 'bald fucking bastard'….

I twitch the setting on the device frequently. I know, I'm incorrigible.

Day21  
I've decided it's time to move on to the next level. It's time for Oliver to earn his keep. I bring a few assistants with me when I visit him this time, including Davies, my most trusted assistant. The man is brilliant, driven and--most importantly--totally amoral. His assistants descend on Oliver like he's the last crab puff on the buffet table. They move quickly and efficiently.

I appreciate that in a minion.

The bed's converted to the restraint table, Oliver strapped hands and feet and given a muscle relaxer—for his own good, really.

Davies is good at what he does. He's not sadistic; it doesn't arouse him—the man has the emotional responses of a sponge. That's what makes him so good. He's a master of the art. It's not often that I watch this type of thing. I'm not particularly squeamish, but I don't find any fascination in torture. It's an instrument, not a hobby—no matter what lies the League attempts to spread about me. I keep my life separate from my business. On this occasion, all we want to do is break Oliver. Quickly and efficiently.

  
Davies, always a thinker, suggests a way to speed up the program, so Oliver's blinded, gagged, his ears are muffled, and I agree to let him be left that way for a few days. I didn’t bother with the monitor; as I said, torture doesn't interest me, and there was nothing to be learned from watching him.

Day23  
I almost feel like I'm about to unwrap a package when I enter his cell again. I remove his restraints, and I'm rather expecting him to…curse me, promise me a bloody gore filled end. Instead he cries. It's almost touching, really. I sit on the edge of the mattress and stroke his cheek until he calms and, with a little chemical help, sleeps. Oliver always had a brittle kind of strength, but he must have gained a bigger presence in my childhood memories then he truly deserved. I never thought it would be quite this easy to break him. The poor thing snapped like a stale baguette….

Day26  
I have the device in my pocket when I go to see him; it operates the metal shades also—very convenient--so I let sunlight into the room and kill the artificial light. He looks tired, smaller than usual. He turns his head towards me like it weighs so much, but his look is defiant—as defiant as his bruises will allow him to be. "Let me go. They're looking for me, and not all of them can be stopped by lead-lined walls."

I have to smile at that. Clever Ollie. He's figured out that Clark has no idea where he is, and never will. "I'm sorry, but to the world, you're dead." I sit at the end of his bed and he goes through a truly remarkable kind of dance; he jerks towards me, pulls away, flinches back towards me and away again. He's probably imagining tearing my throat out. I press his ankle through the thin blanket. "They found your body not too long ago. Very sad. I'm sure the memorial was beautiful. I did not attend. I was busy elsewhere—" I stroke his ankle and watch him struggle to keep his face blank. "—and through some oversight, I wasn't invited. Can you imagine?"

Queen flings his head back and lies still, the very picture of despair. I let my fingers walk higher, push his loose pants leg up…trace a little circle around his knee cap and watched his flesh jump. I slide my hand around to the inside of his thigh and watch his belly jerk, his mouth twist….

  
Life's a funny old thing. Here's Oliver Queen, golden boy, poor little orphan, one of the richest CEOs' in the Tri-state, wearing prison grays and sleeping in a stainless steel box. I stroke upwards and the tips of my fingers graze his sac, and he jerks in a sharp breath. I smile and tickle the soft, warm flesh. "Are you going to tell me to stop?" I really do hope he will, but he surprises me.

"It's not important. Flesh is only flesh, and nothing you do can harm me. You can take my flesh, but you can’t take me."

How fucking gullible can one man be—oh, wait. He *was* fucking Clark….

Day 28  
Oliver's skin is hot and dry, and feels like raw silk under my lips. It's different. I'm not used to touching someone else with so little body hair. I tend to be drawn to tall men with thick, dark body hair and heavy muscle, who love getting fucked. And no, I don’t examine very closely why.

I drag my mouth higher and higher, and trail my tongue over his bare gym-rat abs…he's groaning, but his expression suggests he's in pain—could be, he's flaccid. Interesting. What kind of dreams does Oliver Queen have? He's tossing his head and making these terrible sounds. I press a fingertip into his belly, hard, and he jerks and gasps. "Wake up, Oliver. You're having a nightmare."

His eyes open. They're bleary and unfocused. "Lex? Lex, what the fuck are you doin' in my room, who let you in…?" He stops and looks around the featureless room, looks up to where sunlight pours through the window. "What happened?" He jerks his arms and legs and looks horribly distressed. "Is this because of what happened on the quad…that stuff in the bathroom…?" He groans, and it's then I realize he's not in the room with me, he's at Excelsior, and it's pretty funny, it really is, but I need to have him here with me—in the present.

"Okay Lex, Lex…all right, listen. Those guys. Those guys…I should have controlled them, but you just…you made me...." His eyes close, and I'm on the edge of beating him until my arms fall off. I poke him again, unnecessarily hard. It helps. And it also wakes him up. When his eyes fly open again, he growls, "Take these off—now!" Strapped down, and the fucker still thinks he's king…or queen…of the world. You just have to laugh. Really. What on earth--demanding *I* do something?

"All right," I say, "for a kiss I will." And, oh my, that's the right thing to say…the shock, the disgust…the resignation.

"What? You're…." He kind of crumples into silence. "All right."

I have to say, I'm surprised…and that's a bit of an understatement. Naturally, I'm also damn curious to see just how far he'll go. I press my mouth to his, and wait for…him to bite, or spit, or jeer…his mouth is soft, dry, lips a little chapped, and that's…his lips give under mine, his breath is warm against my lips…he presses back, just a bit, just enough to be noticeable. It's…interesting.

I undo the restraints. He sighs, flexes his hands. His wrists are red, raw, his ankles are raw, too. There's a thin line of blood dribbling down one foot, and I make a note to have whoever had that buckled on too tight learn just the right way to restrain someone. I don't want permanent marks on him—I want there to be nothing he can use to trace the passage of time.

I've always ever been surrounded with barely competent help.

There's a wispy little noise that draws my attention back to Oliver, and I notice his eyes are glassy—wet.

Green Arrow, hero, Oliver Queen, third youngest billionaire in North America, curls up on his side on a narrow metal bed, and tries like hell not to make a sound as he cries. I should have known that the isolation couldn't totally break him, but who knew that it would take something as simple as a kiss? I stroke his hair and mutter soothing inanities, and he cries harder. So I kiss him again.

It shuts him up, and he kisses back…a little. Not enthusiastically. Not yet.

Day 37  
He waits for me to come now. He still won’t give me the names, and he has a look about him when I enter his cage. He feels…um…guilty? Dirty? It's like candy. Like scotch. It's like coke. And it's very, very arousing. And speaking of arousal….

I install a television in his cell. It shows carefully edited newscasts, and occasionally a favorite program of his. Why not? I don’t want him going insane with boredom. That's much too easy.

I watch him watch. The night he sees Clark standing shoulder to shoulder with Bruce Wayne is an education. When Clark looks at Bruce and smiles at something he says, Oliver shows a little crack. Bruce doesn't notice, and Clark's eyes track him, his smile fades a bit, and Oliver *cracks* along that fault a little more.

I take a breath and arrange my features into solicitous concern. Oh, dear…poor Ollie. "Oliver? Is there a problem? Do you want another program? Care for some juice?"

"No. No, and don't think…don’t think I don’t know what you're doing." He closes his eyes. "Turn it off, please."

I ignore him, so we see Clark and Bruce walk away, and as the camera pans over the crowd, we see Bruce's hand land on Clark's shoulder briefly. I turn the television off then and walk over to the bed, sit on the edge. "Do you want to talk?"

  
He looks at me incredulously. "Talk?" He laughs, and turns to face the wall.

Oliver is not a complicated man. He lost his parents, lost his way at school, in the world, thought he'd found it in being a costumed freak.

Or…no, I think he really thought he'd found his way in Clark. But Clark…Clark is a hard man to get to know, harder to…to deal with. Oliver…I think he was already broken when I got him. I'm fine with that. I'll just break him a little more, and a little more, until…I'm tired of it.

I have him knocked out again, because…well, no real reason beyond my enjoyment in watching him lose control.

The next time I ask the question and request a kiss, he opens under me like he's starving. It makes me hard—it's completely hot. I push into it until he's moaning and this time he's hard against me, rolling his hips and shaking. A heaping helping of despair and a pinch of diazepam…it's a wonderful combination.

  
Day 42  
"I hate you. I hate you so fucking much."

Well, of course he hates me. I control whether he wakes or sleeps, whether he eats, when he can piss, when he can come—I own him. He'd be a fool not to hate me. "Shhh, don't…just…."

He moans like he's dying, and kisses me, throws himself into it like a starving man. I must admit, he's a damn good kisser. No wonder…I imagine for a split second him doing this to Clark, and when I can get past a briefly blinding (and surprising) blast of rage, wonder what he felt. Clark's mouth, I wonder…did it feel different? Clark's warmer than average, I know that. Did that make it better? When Oliver's dick was in Clark's mouth, was it better than…I wonder if I should ask him, wonder if Oliver knows I know.

Oliver's thrusting against me, whining, muttering ‘I hate you’ over and over…I tell you, it is really hard as hell not to laugh.

"Do you want me to…." I press my palm against the bulge jerking in those terrible pants—the fabric must be rubbing him raw.

"Yes, you fucking…God! You—" Aw. Rendered speechless by disgust, at me, at himself because the front of those shapeless grey pants are wet and his dick is practically leaping against my hand. His eyes squeeze shut like a child's when I reach into those pants to free his dick. I understand the impulse entirely. When I was Lionel Luthor's son, I had the desire to squeeze my eyes closed frequently. It was a sort…of magical thinking: 'if my eyes are closed then I can't see and if I can’t see then it's not happening'…ah, Ollie, if it were that simple, neither one of us would be here now.

I'm jerking him off…I push fingers inside him, fuck him until he's gasping open-mouthed, pushing into both my hands uncontrollably. And why not? I don’t believe in false modesty; sex is something I do well. I understand sex. I think…I think….

"Does Clark make you ride his dick? Does he make you beg him to fuck you? Umm…when you come, do you beg him to let you eat if off his skin," I ask and he arches, hisses--almost a scream—and comes. Oh, yes, I was sure that would do it--very hot. It was quick, dirty and probably more painful than he let on, but I have a feeling about him….

Day 50  
Today, I bring a lunch in on a tray, and sit on the edge of his cot. He doesn't jerk away. I sip water and watch him eat. He chews through his food on autopilot, it's just a necessity. When he finishes, he wipes his mouth and says, "Can I ask you something? Please?" It sends a hot bolt of lust through me. _Please_ , just like that, with no prompting…I roll that around in my head and suck every bit of pleasure from it….

"Ask me anything," I say, and stare into his eyes.

"I-- how long have I been held here?"

I tell him it's been more than a year. That he has a statue in the park, that the League moved on and his slot was filled shortly after. I hold him. He sobs hard, loudly, and for a long time. My wrist gets sore from his grip. But he finally pulls himself together, and my patience finally pays off. He whispers, "Bruce Wayne…Batman...."

He cries even harder when I point out that I hadn't asked him for a name.

I fuck him with his hands tied to the bed frame; being tied like that pulls his arms out and down and makes his back arch, makes him more…attractive. He wraps his legs around my waist when I thrust in—it's hard not to come as soon as I shove in—he's so hot and it's been a long time for me. He pulls against his bonds and screams the whole time I fuck him, and comes without a touch.

*He* asked for the cuffs.

I did say I had a feeling about him.

He smiles, just a little, when I come in now. He makes little sarcastic hero-type jokes. I learn he's actually not a bad chess player, and he can be quite amusing occasionally. I watch him when he's unconscious, those times Davies injects him with the little cocktail we've designed with our special guest in mind. I watch Oliver sleep, and as he sleeps, I trace his perfect nose, his cheekbones, press my thumb into the arch of his neck and feel the way the pulse trembles delicately under it….

I gradually make changes to his room. Make it a home for him. His bed has sheets and pillows and blankets now, and it's soft. I add furniture. Books, rugs, a lamp. Music. Bit by bit, I give him what he needs to feel like a person again. My person. He makes his cage a nest on his own.

Day 60  
I'm afraid our attempt at introducing a version of my accelerated healing was a spectacular failure. We've finally begun to see some positive results in animal test subjects. We thought that maybe a human subject would react positively, but no, he's beginning to break down. It's disappointing, but not the main reason Ollie's here…more of a side note, really. I take notes, and spend a great deal of time with him, watching him. He has no idea he's sick. Not yet. He complains a bit of being tired, so I leave the window's shutter open, let him see sunlight. He's taken to apologizing for Excelsior: long rambling stories that don’t try to excuse himself, which more often paint him as the villain of the piece, which portray me as the suffering little prince, misunderstood and flailing about, trying to find a place in the world. For that, I put him on his knees on the bare metal floor and fuck him, pushing him over the metal tiles hard enough to streak them with blood. He comes when I close my hand over the back of his neck and squeeze, so hard he nearly passes out. There's something wildly exhilarating about it…it's like fucking on a bungee jump—what would Clark do if he knew? I fill Oliver's ass with my come and think of Bruce's face, twisted in disgust, like the prude he is. Hating me, and blaming and hating Oliver for having broken…it almost makes me want to keep him.

Day 75  
"…Green Lantern. He acts like a dick, but he's really…." He coughs, looks ashamed for a moment before finishing in a much less chatty voice, "…a good guy." He falls silent and stares at his fingers tearing at each other, but only for a few seconds. I cup that chiseled chin and lick my way into his mouth, soft, patient, waiting for his lips to melt open, and when they do, I coax his head downwards.

"You're a good boy, Ollie, a very—shiiit—a very good boy."

To date, he's given up the identity of Bruce, of Diana, of Barry…every time he gives me a new name, I reward him in some way, and it always leads back to sex. I'd told him that I wouldn't rape him, and I haven't…not technically.

His head is in my lap, and that's completely his own desire. I stroke his hair, pull and tug to guide him; his hands considerately hold the material of my pants out of the way.

He gives an amazing blowjob. He sucks dick like a pro. I ask him about it and find out that he and I worked the club scene in just about the same way. Well, I'm sure he spent much less time face down in a puddle of his own making. I made mistakes back then--mistakes I don't repeat anymore. Oliver…even screwing up, he was a prince. Living with himself is what changed him. And here we are: I've changed him again.

Day 79  
He knows. I've told him that he doesn't have long to live. That he has a genetic abnormality, that his heart is going to kill him. He doesn't even question me. Though it's true. His heart is going to kill him. I tell him that I'm going to release him, that his last days will be spent in the sun, breathing fresh air. As I expected, he protested, not wanting to be away from me. Of course, I assure him, I promise him I'll never leave him, and that's an easy promise to make--hell yes, one of the easiest. I swear to him I'll be with him to the last breath because that's how much things have changed between us. He takes my hand and asks what year it is, I tell him it's 2010.

No real reason. It's just a nice number.

He leaks from the eyes, but in a manly way. He says it doesn't feel as if that much time has passed. He says he's grateful to have gotten to know the real me. The real me. Good one…even *I* don’t know the real me…I almost miss what he's saying. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that. I…I was a little overcome."

He smiles and grabs my hand. "Do you mean it? You won’t let me die alone?"

I stroke his cheek and kiss him. "I promise. I promise." Promises….

He's very pale; in a way it makes him look beautiful, angelic. His eyes are locked on mine. They follow me around the room; they track my every movement. He smiles and manages a small blush when he notices I notice. "You're very beautiful," he says.

How odd that he's thinking the exact same thing I'm thinking.

I wonder if he's ever heard of Stockholm Syndrome.

Day 83  
He tells me he knows the time is close. He feels it. Of course, I know it too, though I'm not relying on feelings--I have a folder full of notes and observations, and the doctor tells me our subject has hours, perhaps. The end, when it comes, will come quickly.

I tell him I'm taking him above ground, and the tears that come so freely now track down his thin cheeks. It's rather touching. I haven't felt like punching him in quite some time.

He takes my hand, makes me wrap mine around his and it trembles in my palm. He's so light, as if his bones have become bird bones, hollow. The feeling I've had the last few days, as if we're living in the reverse of a fairy tale, makes me pat his hand. No one is coming to rescue the prince; no one is going to rewrite my tale. It's going to end the way I planned.

Davies comes in and stabs him one last time in the neck. His eyes flutter, and he sighs. My mouth is on his and I drink in the sigh that eases out of him, and his thin hand comes up to cup my head. So hot, fever hot, and dry…I wonder if Clark feels like that? I wonder idly what Clark is doing at this moment.

We are on the lawn of Metropolis University, all silver and sable by the light of the moon. Ollie's head is in my lap and the moon shines down, and his breath comes quicker and shallower.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes yet again, and I say it's not your fault, even though I have no idea what in the world he's apologizing for. Bullying? Assault? Intimidation? Rape and nightmares? I'd say…we're even. He apologizes again for leaving me. He grabs my lapel, and pulls me down and holding as tight as he can, says, "Clark…Superman," and there it is, the only name he wouldn't give me, and I assume it's his way of telling me he loves me. I imagine he thinks he's giving me a gift.

I confess: I do feel something. You know, I do think I've slipped a bit. Lost the edge, I suppose. I kiss him, whisper his name and he says, "Yes," as if it was an answer to a question and I really think he doesn't feel the pinprick of the needle. His eyes droop and I decide that I won't tell him that I've always known the identity of all the League members, and certainly I'd known Clark's. I think of it as my parting gift to him. I rest my hand on his forehead and stare at the moon—it's really very large and bright. It seems to be hanging so low we could reach out and touch it. He smiles the whole while; he's still smiling when his heart stops.

Davies sends minions at my signal, and they take Oliver's body away. The night is dying, and I have work to do.

11-24-2008


End file.
